"At last one of Sandy's fists grazed him on the shoulder and sort of
peeved him, it looked like. He ducks under Sandy's next punch, steps in,
and wallops Sandy over the eye--that punch didn't travel more'n six
inches. But it slammed Sandy down in a corner like he's been shot.
"He was too surprised to be much hurt, though, and drags himself up to
his feet, makin' a pass at his pocket at the same time. Then he came
again, silent and thinkin' of blood, I s'pose, with a knife in his hand.
"This time the tenderfoot didn't wait. He went in with a sort of hitch
step, like a dancer. Ferguson's knife carved the air beside the
tenderfoot's head, and then the skinny boy jerked up his right and his
left--one, two--into Sandy's mouth. Down he goes again--slumps down as
if all the bones in his body was busted--right down on his face. The
other feller grabs his shoulder and jerks him over on his back.
"He stands lookin' down at him for a moment, and then he says, sort of
thoughtful: 'He isn't badly hurt, but I suppose I shouldn't have hit him
twice.'
"Can you beat that, Steve? You can't!
"When Sandy come to he got up to his feet, wobbling--seen his guns--went
over and scooped 'em up, with the eye of the tenderfoot on him all the
time--scooped 'em up--stood with 'em all poised--and so he backed out
through the door.
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